Chronicles of an Asclepiadae
by Closet Bakemono
Summary: The days are long at Caduceus USA, but when Derek Stiles and his faithful assistant are sent to Costigar, Africa to help those in need, he finds respite in the form of a young doctor with ambitions to save his homeland. WARNING: adult themes, MxM.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Alright, here's the D-L, peeps. This is the first fanfiction I've written in years, and pretty much the only time I've tried this style. So. Hopefully it'll be interesting.**

**I'm not actually sure why I decided to write something based on Trauma Center; the only thing I can tell you is that I had the urge to explore these characters some more while playing Under The Knife 2. -shrug- I'm just gonna make it clear right now, though, that they might not seem completely IC, since I'm just going off my own perspective. Not like there's much development there in the game, anyway.**

**I don't know exactly where this thing's going or when it'll end, but I'll try to keep up with it. 'Cause it'd be nice to finish something.**

**WARNING: will contain adult themes, including sexual. Yeah, there's gonna be some homo shit goin' on. So if you've got a low tolerance for such, I'd suggest high-tailing your ass on out of here right now.**

**Otherwise, enjoy. :3**

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"I _will_ save this patient!"

It's one of those things you say just before an operation because you're so pumped up- or you're_ trying _to get pumped up- and it feels and sounds really good at the time, y'know, but later it just sounds kinda funny. Funny, or incredibly sad.

Today, it was sad.

**Prologue: Neumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis (Is a Real Word)**

I can't tell if it embarrasses Angie or not, either. She'll give me that look of hers sometimes, where she just stares all focused-like at some point on my forehead. Like she's listening, but not really. She should really nod when she does that. Unless she's just trying to make me feel stupid.

She's probably trying to make me feel stupid.

And sometimes she'll smile, but I can't tell if it's out of discomfort or what. I mean, she shouldn't feel uncomfortable around me after all these years, but you never can tell with a woman. Or maybe it's just her; maybe she's only one out of a few that fly off the handle for no damn good reason and expect you to read their minds and shit all the time. Fairer sex my ass.

Yeah, I'm rambling, I know. But, like I said, it's been a rough day. Well, 'sad'.

And anyway, I'm doing all this speculation for nothing. 'Cause in the end, it doesn't really matter what kind of looks Angie gives me if she wants my cock. Which she does. Has for a while, now.

And she's so transparent about it, it kills me.

I'm talking juvenile playground shit, where you tease or pinch or scowl at some poor kid because you're actually too dumb to try and befriend the person you _like_. And then you deny, deny, deny that accusation when someone finally gets sick of the act and calls you out on it. I mean, honestly. Her face looks worse than a tomato's at the mere _mention_ of having lunch with me.

Because God forbid it's like _that_.

I really don't understand who the Hell she thinks she's fooling. Which just leads me to more speculation on all things supple-breasted, which, in turn, leads me to wasting more neural firings on a bunch of shit that doesn't even matter when I _should_ be wasting them on the patient that just died over in Room 104.

I fucking hate appendicitis.

No, let me re-phrase: I fucking hate people who have appendicitis and _know_ they have appendicitis but _refuse_ to come in 'til the last minute. Because the last minute, dumbasses, isn't the last minute at all; as soon as that baby ruptures, there's no more time. You've got negative minutes left, you are in the _shit_ once all that lovely bacteria and pus starts gushing out into the rest of your body. And I can't help you, dumbass, because the Healing Touch is only good for slowing things down for a bit, not going _back _in time and reversing your _stupid ass _decisions.

I can't get too mad at him in this case, though. He was just a 14-year-old brat that played too much soccer. His parents are the clueless shitheads who should've done something about it.

I fucking hate hospitals.

And I know I'm just saying that because it's been a bad-sad-sucky kind of day, but sometimes I really do hate this place. Hope Hospital, Caduceus- it doesn't matter which Hell-Hole I'm at. 'Cause no one wins in a hospital. All those smiles and congratulations and full recoveries? Those're fucking illusions. Grade A _bullshit_.

Because, in the world of sickness and surgery and sanitizer, of paperwork and medication and insurance policies, no one ever _really_ wins. Especially not the guy who went to school for eight years, just so he could stand in the middle of it all wearing his stupid fucking stethoscope and an empty smile.

My name is Derek Stiles, and I'm a doctor.

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**A/N: If anyone understands the significance of this chapter's title, they get an e-cookie.**


	2. Baggage

**Chapter 1: Baggage**

Have you ever been to Africa?

Y'know, that big mass of land where man first got his start? That disgustingly hot, sun-charred hunk of rock where disease and poverty and genocide flourish?

Oh c'mon, AIDS has been gone for years. You've got nothing to worry about.

Except for land mines and gun-toting children and angry wildlife. And that whole 'zoonoses' thing. Yeah, Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome might be a thing of the past, but that doesn't mean any of us walking meat-bags are any safer. 'Cause people will never stop fucking animals.

Oh yeah, I went there. It was a joke. And it's probably the only one you'll get out of me, so you'd better fucking appreciate it.

In all seriousness though, Africa's still pretty bad- might even be worse now. That's why we're here.

And by 'here', I mean on an eight-passenger bizjet. Don't know what model; aviation was never exactly my strong point. Flying was never a hobby of mine, period, until I became a doctor.

You get good at your job, they wanna send you fucking everywhere.

Maybe things would be different if I'd just stayed at Hope Hospital. I mean, _Caduceus_ is in a league of its own compared to that place; it's got its hooks in shitholes all over the world. It should be expected that the company's top surgeons get out there and travel a bit. I should be _thrilled_ just to have the opportunity. Really.

Then again, I really don't wanna get shot. Or mauled. Or eaten.

It's gotten to the point where I don't even wanna read the in-flight magazine for this place. All I know is that we're going to some dump called 'Costigar'- a Camp Zakara specifically, I think- and that's really all I _need_ to know. I'm sure if we arrive there with all these preconceptions in our little heads, we'll be sorely disappointed.

I glance over and see Angie intently reading one of the things, her green eyes glued onto a caption describing some horrifically mangled child and his dead sister.

Of course _she'd _be reading it. She's the type of young shit that thinks filling her head with obscure details makes her smart somehow. It's called 'trivia' for a reason. Because it's _trivial_. Get it?

God.

Now let me follow that up with a 'damnit'.

I say goddamnit because, besides secretly being a total fucking potty-mouth, I can't get that surgery from last week out of my mind. Y'know, the one with that kid, and his appendicitis. The whole thing just keeps nagging at me. I still remember the way that my guts shrunk when he was first wheeled in, and I remember vowing stupidly to save him. I remember the gloves, the scalpel. The cold table and skin.

I remember that sigh from Angie as I called the time of death. I remember being gracious enough not to acknowledge it, just like all the other times; because part of me's used to it by now, and part of me thinks that she's honesty trying to hide her disappointment when she does that. And she is disappointed every time that I don't miraculously save someone. Apparently, since her doctor has the Healing Touch, heart failure's not allowed to happen. Bleed-outs. Infection. I mean, with a gift that extraordinary, appendectomies start to seem routine. Safe.

But it isn't safe. It's never safe.

If you think we forget the patients that die on our operating tables for one minute, no matter how stupid they might've been to get there, you'd be wrong.

So please, if you're ever wheeled into my OR, don't die.

Because I can't stop thinking about that stupid kid-- how he should've been diagnosed sooner. How he should've never been brought to me in the first place. Caduceus is a place to treat and research new diseases, not slice up your run-of-the-mill jackasses with swollen viscera.

Hoffman would have a shit-fit (literally, mind you, he's getting old) if he heard me talking like that. After all, we're still doctors here, and our ER is open for business just like any other hospital. Our patients can't decide where or when they get fucked over.

I think I'm experiencing what psychologists call "burnout".

I could get all technical on you, make your head fucking spin with my ridiculously extensive medical jargon. But I'm really not in the mood. Obviously. So suffice to say, it's when you don't give a damn anymore. It's when you start resenting your patients. Your needy, sick-ass patients with their vomit and blood and liquid shit.

You're getting burnout just from hearing about it, aren't you? Well, no, what you're feeling right now is your garden variety disgust. This shit sitting in the bottom of my stomach's way past disgust. It's a fucking disease.

Don't worry, you won't catch it unless you've spent a solid eight years slicing up bodies. I'm not contagious.

And in case you're scratching your head now, I never said I was racked by guilt over the kid. I just said that I can't stop thinking about him.

Still, not being able to get something out of your head does take its toll, regardless if you're giving it conscious attention or not. So this plane ride's killing me. Understandably.

I pop a Xanax, and I see Angie give me a look out of the corner of my eye. Like I'm suddenly lower for trying to medicate myself. Like maybe she expects me to finish off the rest of the bottle right in front of her.

'Understandable' rarely applies with this girl.

Ten minutes later I'm saying fuck it and heading to the little bathroom in the back. Clearly, I need to get my endorphins going some other way. That, or I'm gonna have to bash my fucking head against something until I pass out.

Being a reasonable guy, I opt to try the less demanding of those activities first.

Did I say 'less demanding'?

Y'know those studies that show people tend to get aroused more during times of stress? Yeah, well, unless you're seeking an affirmation of life with some other dickhead, it only works to a certain extent.

It's hard enough jerking off when you're a doctor. Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against rubbing one out in a hospital- fuck, I think the first time I did was in the janitor's closet- but a guy can only see so many tumors and abscesses and patches of rotten flesh before it starts getting to him.

So sometimes, when I sit down and stick a hand down my pants, it takes a while to get a reaction. And it really never helps a guy's state of mind when, after a solid five minutes of chafing his own junk, he can't even cum.

This is one of those times.

I dunno if it's the boy I couldn't save, or Angie's relentlessly annoying behavior, or the fact that, even after all the miles I've racked up, I still haven't gotten used to flying-- but less than a minute after I figure out that I'm too frustrated to orgasm, the gods decide that this situation just isn't awful enough already and suddenly I'm throwing up my complimentary turkey sandwich all over the goddamn wall.

My name is Derek Stiles, and I fucking hate this job.


	3. Karma

**Chapter 2: Karma**

I used to like going to the zoo.

These days, though, watching those pathetic beasts prowl around their cages just doesn't do it for me. For one, the whole scene's uncomfortably reminiscent of our own lives- just pacing endlessly and eating and attending to our genitals in a fallaciously small space- and two, and this is perhaps the more relevant reason, I've grown to resent animals in general.

Oh yeah, love the dog that looks up at you and wags its tail and gives nothing but affection. Adore the baby orangutan that clings to its mother and peeks out from under a head of spiky orange hair. Marvel at all your pets' lovable little nuances and tricks.

Ignore the fact that they could be, and probably are, infected with parasites. Overlook the disgusting cesspool of diseases and viruses that they could give you through one little kiss, one little cuddle or stroke of the fingers. Just block it all out.

As a doctor, I don't have that luxury. I'm one of the lucky bastards that gets to see and smell and touch the consequences of zoonoses. I get to pull back skin flaps and burn away bacteria and drain stinking, oozing puss. I get to deal with the dark side of all your furry, scaly, and feathery friends.

So when you see me scowl at the roaming tabby or kick the yipping dog, please do us both a favor and keep your fucking mouth shut.

Luckily for me, not too many superfluous pets are kept here. It's mostly just livestock. Delicious, non-sentimental livestock.

Unluckily for all of us in this shithole of a camp, Africa's got plenty of other animals to be wary of. Big, toothy, stalking wildlife that are just as content to nab one of us as our poor cows.

I've heard plenty of those stories already- two and a half months is more than enough time to sample the horrors of Africa- though it was only on the day that our team was supposed to welcome a new member to it ranks that I played my first true part in one.

I'm elbow deep in work when one of the more familiar faces around camp- an administrator who's seen it fit to Americanize his name to 'Bob'- enters rigidly. Apparently, an emergency patient's being transferred from a nearby swamp, where he's been found, collapsed, with a mangled leg. Word is that it's the result of a crocodile attack.

The guy's name is Karl Meeker. And I think, of course it's a white guy that gets mauled. Dumbass must not be too familiar with the wiles of Africa.

But no, I'm told, he's real familiar. Familiar enough to be out poaching rhinos.

So then I think, why the fuck am I being interrupted? They expect me to throw down my scalpel so that I can go save his sorry ass instead of the guy's I'm already operating on? Shit. Mr. Meeker's likely to be taken into custody post-op, anyway. I'd probably be saving him a lot of grief by _not _patching him up.

Real doctorly of me. I know.

I also know that I am expected to operate on everyone, regardless of personal feelings. So I'm gonna have to wrap my first surgery up real fast while Angie runs off and brings the white guy in. Snap, snap, snappy.

And I'd had such high hopes for squeezing a nap in after this one.

Before I know it, I'm ripping my mask off, washing the blood from my hands, and jogging outside to meet the new arrival. The first thing I see is the jeep, the militant guard whose name I can never remember, and Angie beside the stretcher. I don't linger on Meeker himself.

Then, finally, I see a new face- the young, firm face of a Costigarian citizen. And he's looking right at me.

For a moment, I'm sure that I feel something aside from mild apathy- the sudden knock against my ribcage certainly isn't routine- but what it is exactly, I can't figure out. There's no time for that. Rather, I find myself rushing our introduction, telling him that it'll have to wait for later, and hurriedly making preparations for Meeker's surgery.

All I know is that his name's Adel Tulba, he has an intriguing accent-- and that he's Camp Zakara's newest doctor.

As I ready the operating table, snapping my gloves on and omitting any promise of saving our reckless patient, I know that Tulba's watching me. His gaze is intense in a way that I haven't felt in such a long time, it's become almost unfamiliar to me- not the skeptical, judging stare of the interns back home, but something much purer than that. Something far more simple and sincere. Something focused.

Humble, yet backed by great ambition.

I start to muse on Meeker's karma- a hunter getting attacked by a wild animal? he sorta had it coming- and I don't realize that I'm actually doing it out loud until I hear Adel's voice. Agreeing with me.

Of course Angie has to pipe in with her ever-opinionated sense of morality and remind us that, as doctors, we're obligated to help all of our patients, no matter what the circumstances.

And all I can think, besides the usual 'shut up Angie', is- I like this Tulba kid's style.

It's a cardinal rule of surgeons to maintain _focus_ during an operation. And since we're all a little ADD, no matter how much the top-dogs deny it, sometimes that requires _effort_; even more so when you need to pull a move as complex as the Healing Touch.

So, understandably, I had to try real hard to concentrate on the bleeding idiot under my fingers as his surgery got underway, rather than sneaking glances up at Tulba. It wasn't that his gaze was asking anything of me; I was just that intrigued by it. I felt compelled to watch him back.

Halfway through suturing the first batch of cuts on this fuck's leg, I feel my lips start to stretch. An' I think, why the Hell am I smiling?

And then I think, now I'm definitely not keeping focus.

Not that these injuries are so drastic that I can't get away with being a little spacey. I'm sure Angie'll feel more appreciated if I actually need her help, anyway. The first half of the operation's fairly uneventful- just the usual sanitize, stitch and slice- and I'm skating by pretty well on less than full attention until I get to the part where I gotta reconstruct Meeker's fucking shin.

Then Tulba pipes up with that accent of his and says, some of those fragments I pulled out don't look like the douchebag's bone. It takes all three of us about two seconds to figure out that they're actually crocodile teeth.

Like I said. Karma.

The crack I hear when I set the bone back into place is a little more satisfying than usual-- and I find myself wondering if Tulba feels the same way, or if that shiver I just caught from my peripherals was out of disgust. He's still a rookie, after all, and this kind of shit takes some getting used to.

I remind myself that he's from the Razu tribe, and that's all it takes to convince me that, no, this isn't intimidating to him. Because those Razu guys are hardcore.

As my hands finish up below on auto-pilot, I find myself wondering if Tulba's ever been through a guerilla attack. Then I start to wonder if his family's dead. Then I wonder what got him into medicine in the first place.

It's easy to see, really. His homeland's so fucked up that they call these last ten years 'progress'. Progress. Even though people are still getting shot and hacked to death and crippled by mysterious fevers everyday.

That's why we're here, though. To lend a helping hand.

Angie calls these camps 'woefully understaffed'; and I, for once, agree. The warfare in Costigar's set it back a hundred years in medicine; the equipment and techniques available to its people are far more lacking than ours. Guns and landmines and diseases are a good way to stunt development.

So when someone like Tulba comes along with his inquisitive eyes and aspirations, it sort of makes him a beacon of hope.

After our surgery wraps up and I get a proper look at him, I feel that tightening sensation around my mouth again. When you're in my line of work, smiles start to become a commodity; so it can be a little off-putting when one sneaks up on you.

Why am I smiling at him?

Of course I always offer a pleasant expression when meeting someone new, but this- this isn't faked. It isn't forced. It's just- _there_. Like I mean it.

Maybe it's because he reminds me of who I used to be. What I used to be.

Then I tell myself, that's really no reason to be smiling. If anything, there should be a fucking grimace on my face.

But the little stretch remains, and when I finally extend a hand to make things official it's rewarded with a mirror image from Adel. Although he seems a little more nervous. Next thing I know, he's calling me an' Angie legendary. _Legendary_. Like we're fucking Jason and the Argonauts.

My shoulders hitch a little, and it takes me a moment to realize that I just laughed.

Thinking about who, exactly, us two Americans are, he's getting more and more flabbergasted by the second. He shouldn't have acted so casually before, he says. He's never seen anyone perform surgery the way that I did. So it's a real treat when I get to look him firmly in the eye, put on a more deliberate grin, and announce that I'm going be his mentor for the next few weeks.

I'm sure that the look I get in return is him shitting his pants.

My name is Derek Stiles-- and today, being a doctor ain't so bad.


End file.
